’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. ’ Abruptly, the niggling doubt that had been plaguing Lord Charvill came sweeping to the surface. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. He, next, seized the unlucky jailer, and forced him along, while Blueskin expedited his movements by administering a few kicks behind. It’s these damned novels. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. Only promise me this.
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